


Only the Living

by JadeLavellan (Jadestone)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hawke in the Fade, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadestone/pseuds/JadeLavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the tumblr prompt, "Last Words." </p><p>Anon asked: "Everything's going to be okay + Fenris & Lavellan (bet you haven't gotten that pairing before lol)"</p><p>On tumblr here: <br/>http://maythedreadwolftakeyou.tumblr.com/post/117457709809/only-the-living</p><p>You can take this as shippy or just an offer of friendship, whichever way you like to read it. </p><p>Thanks to Actually_Fen_Harel, Magnetklaue, and grumpclump for proofreading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Living

**Author's Note:**

>           _Na via lerno victoria. 'Only the living know victory.'_  
>                   - Fenris, Dragon Age II

They come to Skyhold slowly, trickling in one by one.

Aveline is the first to arrive. She comes early, to take over the preparations, lifting the heavy burden onto her own strong shoulders. She knows she can bear it. She leaves Kirkwall in Donnic’s care, and that she trusts her beloved city to him speaks more to her love than if she had asked him along to stand beside her—she does not need his presence to draw his strength into her own. She does not cry—she has seen enough of sorrow in her lifetime—but she does not hide the pain she carries either.

Merril is not afraid to weep. Tears trail down her cheeks, a second set of lines glistening atop her pale skin. But she, too, does not waver. She carries the pain of loss most of all among their company; and although this death is not her fault, not this time, she still adds it to the pile inside her heart. She may be a daisy, but with an ironbark core, and she is not afraid to let her sadness run its course.

Isabela deals with it as she does everything else, arriving at Skyhold only a handful of days early, and she spends most of them in the tavern. She drinks and gambles and flirts, boasting fondly of herself and her friends. “Life is a storm,” she tells anyone who asks. “You can’t do anything but sail through it.” But late at night, when the halls empty and she must wander alone to her bed, her eyes are empty and glazed: a ship, adrift at sea, with no idea where to find safe harbor anymore.

Almost no one recognizes the hooded figure who trails in only the day before the ceremony. He wears a rough cloth robe, unadorned and a colorless brown-grey shade, like shadows. He keeps the hood up, head hunched to conceal his features, but never once bowed in submission. He does not cry, but neither does he laugh and joke. Instead, he stands, silent and sentry-like. If those who knew him before look at his face, they do not see the stony mask of judgment they have grown accustomed too. The strength of what he feels now has washed that away, replaced with deepest grief. If certain people knew he had come here, they would kill him. Anders came anyway.

 Varric, of course, was already at Skyhold, waiting for them. He flits among the group, mirroring their mourning without even trying. One night he’s with Isabela, laughing and raising a glass to adventures shared; the next night holding a shaking Merril in his strong arms as she cries. Aveline has lifted the mantle of responsibility from him, but still he helps, letting her steel will guide his. And to any who will listen, he recounts their tales; stories spilling from his lips instead of sobs. He is not the glue that holds their small, fragmented family together. He never was. But he tries, now, because it is what his friend would have wanted.

 And Fenris… Fenris arrives at the last minute. He does not trust himself to come sooner. If he lets himself stop moving for even a minute, he feels the anger welling up inside him, the savage urge to howl and rage until the very stones of Skyhold come tumbling down upon them all. Instead, he burns away anything he might ever feel again before he lets himself step inside the Keep. He wants the pain that flickers across his skin to blaze bright enough to set things right again, and he curses for the thousandth time that the power bestowed upon him can bring nothing but destruction. He has only ever been a weapon; a tool to be owned and used, and there is no one left he trusts to wield him.

 Of them all, his grief is the most self-destructive. Merrill and Varric let theirs out, while Aveline and Anders accept the burden. Isabela floats atop it; barely skimming the surface of her loss, pretending it isn’t deep enough to drown her. But Fenris’ pain turns inward, cutting into his heart like knives. This is not an enemy he can face with a sword, or even rip savagely into with his own hands. He cannot fight what they now must face, and although they wait here together, each must confront their new reality alone.

They have come to Skyhold, one by one, from wherever they have scattered: a family collected once more. But they are not whole. They will never be whole again.

They have come to Skyhold for a funeral.

 Hawke is dead.

 

There is no body, of course, and Fenris is not sure if that makes the ordeal any easier. They build the pyre in the yard, ignoring the risk of fire damage. It is only symbolic, at this point, but none of them will feel right unless it is done. Dozens of watchers have gathered, as the wood is silently piled higher and higher. He does not count them; he knows if he stares too long at their unfamiliar faces, he will lash out. Their gazes slide across him, stranger’s tongues framing his name, and despite his armor he feels naked before them. What right do they have, to be here for this? To see the hurt that cuts across him deeper than any of his gleaming scars? They mourn the one they called ‘Champion’, but had never known, not like he had. The nobles make a show of sadness, muttering to each other of the various ways Hawke’s actions benefited them, each playing up their supposed connections to the savior of Kirkwall.

Fenris forces himself to look away. He would burn their businesses and fine mansions and even let Kirkwall fall again, if it could have prevented _this_. Instead, with trembling fingers, he helps to lay the circle of stones around the pyre. Each one feels heavier than the last in his hand, as though forcing him to admit what a part of him—even now—does not accept: Hawke is dead.

Hawke is dead, and they were not there to help. It does not feel real, has not felt real since Varric’s letter arrived and shattered his world. After it came, he spent days smashing bottles against the walls, and went looking for fights just so he could slam his fist into something that would hit him back. But nothing changed the words on the paper; the words he now wishes he’d never learned the meanings of. Now even the memories of Hawke’s careful, patient teaching will forever be haunted by that last message.

Inquisitor Lavellan steps down the long stairs of the Keep, and as she walks into the group the tone of the murmuring changes. She glides confidently through the parting sea of people to join his companions at the front, giving Varric’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before selecting a single stone to place herself. Those gathered back away slightly as she stands at the base of the pyre, whether in fear or respect he cannot tell, but she wears their whispers like armor. Regardless, he is glad for the space she creates as he and the rest of his broken family finish the circle. If he does not turn, he can almost pretend that they are alone, that these strangers will not witness this brutally private moment.

Varric makes a speech. It is long and bitter and hopeful and beautiful, and Fenris bites his cheek until he bleeds. The Inquisitor also speaks, although only briefly. She does not pretend to have known Hawke, not when standing before her are the grieving remnants of those left behind. He would be resentful about how grateful he is for this small offering, had he the ability to feel anything but emptiness. But a speech is expected, and so she gives one.

The wait until the fire is lit is unbearably long, but his chest fills increasingly with dread as the time approaches, even though there is no corpse here to burn. Someone he does not know is reciting part of the Chant of the Departed, and he is not listening to the words anymore—he doesn’t remember if Hawke even believed in the Maker by the end. He stares at the empty pile of wood and fuel, and it seems both too big for any human body and too small to ever represent what Hawke meant to all of them. He can still hear the last words the Champion spoke to him before leaving to help the Inquisition: ‘ _Everything's going to be okay.’_  Words given to him lightly, with a laugh, brushing off his concern before stepping away and out of his life forever.

Nothing will ever be okay again.

 _Did you know you were going to die?_ he wants to ask his dead companion. Their Champion had let none of them go with them on that last journey, insisting that they stay here; stay safe. _You knew any of us would sacrifice ourselves for you_   he mourns, knowing that this is why Hawke insisted on going alone. But now the torch is being set against the wood and there is no room in his soul to think about anything but the scene before him. The flames lick across the sticks and straw, smoke stinging his nostrils, but all the smell reminds him of is the streets of Kirkwall as they burned. A light went out in Hawke that day, some spark that never rekindled once the Champion saw just what havoc flames can wreck.

 

The others are standing close, close enough for him to see the different ways they carry this loss:

Varric has cried already, his tears artfully presented as part of his speech, but Fenris cannot fault the dwarf for even this. It isn’t a show, like the tittering, bird-like nobles dressed in their glittering cloth plumage behind them—it is simply who he is. He makes this into a story because if it’s only a story, then maybe, he can still shape it into a happy ending. Isabela is not crying, not quite, still not admitting to herself how deep this wound cuts her. She has an arm slung across Merrill’s shoulders, the mage’s eyes already red with tears. Varric is holding her other hand. She asks for comfort and finds it, freely given; a balm to soothe a wound that will never fully close for any of them. Aveline stands a bit apart, like him—however, although no one stands beside her, she holds the support she knows Donnic gives her inside herself, back straight as she stares unblinking at the flames.

 But Fenris has always carried his own pain, whether hidden below his armor or like a bright red sash across his wrist. His shoulders are hunched as though to shield himself, and he knows there are no endings, not really; least of all happy ones.

He feels—nothing. If he were to feel, it would be crippling devastation. It would be blinding rage. It would be an anger and a sorrow that would glow so brightly in his heart and on his skin, he could bring the world down around him.

He has never known how to ask for help.

And today, he does not need to. He glances down in surprise as cool fingers slip between his, gently squeezing his palm. Lavellan stands next to him, sadly staring at the crackling fire. She does not say anything. There is nothing she could say that would make any difference. But she silently takes his hand, freely offering what little she can give; sharing the small consolation of companionship he tried to deny himself.

He thinks, finally, he understands why when they sought for their Inquisitor, they chose her.

E _verything is going to be okay._

He does not feel okay. He does not know that he ever truly will again, after this. But perhaps he will not burn out just yet.

 


End file.
